The Nameless Grace
by ThreeWhiskeyLunch
Summary: Sith warrior Cricket and smuggler Zeck meet by chance and become obsessed with seeing each other again, but are really rather idiotic and leave it up to chance after their scheduled reunion is foiled by circumstance. Events conspire to help get their heads out of their rear ends.
1. Chapter 1

**Cricket**

She stares into the empty store front, the four spectres in the glass reflecting back at her like ghostly customers that used to roam inside, now frozen in time. Beyond is the bare tile floor, the back wall, the lone counter with a single mug emblazoned with the logo of the now closed caf shop. The mug seems to beckon, the promise of what had been, what could perhaps still be if only she could follow some hidden trail, find the source, beg for one last sip of liquid ecstasy. One last whiff of perfectly roasted aroma tingling her nose. One last press of lips to the warm, rounded edge of the mug. One last first taste. One last burst of flavor. One last chance to be awakened by a perfectly crafted labor of love.

"Damn." The mutter is past her lips and into the open air and she hears the childish petulance, the near whine of a child whose promise of a treat has been spoiled by circumstance, but who still demands of the universe that the treat be dispensed if for no other reason than because she is who she is and the universe owes her. She sighs heavily with disappointment, eyes moving longingly over the emptiness of space between her and the mug, wishing and hoping and knowing that neither will fulfill the ache of what had been. What could be.

_She walks in beauty, like the night… _Was that the memory? or the dream? Anymore, she doesn't know the difference.

Vette's chipper voice breaks her reverie. "There's one across the street. Let's just go there." Her attention is brought back to the spectres in the window. Her eyes skim over the four outlines, Vette and Pierce and Quinn and herself. A study in differences. One tall and broad and substantially, overwhelmingly there. One lithe and quick, full of life and optimistic vibrance. One lanky and well-cut, standing slightly apart, guarded and staid. And herself a force of nature, Zabrak horns along her head, her form shimmering and dark, her movements suggesting shadows, her shadow suggesting death. A group unto themselves, bonded by more than blood, moving as one in a dance with herself as the focal point.

Her gaze drifts back to the mug and for a brief moment she envisions the hand that set it there. The fingers that unwrap from it, the grasp released as the final swallow of caf, gone cold but still darkly flavored, slides down the throat and into the bloodstream. Was the mug abandoned then? or placed as a reminder. It bothers her not to know. Is she being taunted? _This is what you could have had had you not been too late, had you fulfilled your end of the bargain._ Or was it so simple as leaving the mug and walking out the door, locking it behind the glass, never to be thought of again. There's a loneliness in either answer, one that nudges the recesses of her conscious, makes her feel out of balance.

"No. They burn the beans." It's a reason, and it's a good one. But it's not The Reason. She doesn't want to think about The Reason Why It Has To Be This Caf Shop. Still, she can see her brows come together in the reflection in the glass, feel the annoyance at the ineptitude of the roaster, the affront to her senses. She made the mistake of going there once. She won't make it again.

Pierce makes a loud chortle. "You're such a snob." She sighs again, softer this time. Speaking of mistakes, there's one right there that she can't correct. Her intentions had been entirely personal and selfish, an attempt to erase a memory that haunted her, still haunts her. Wishing to replace the ghosting of skin against skin, warm current of breath in her hair, the echo of a voice. _She walks in beauty, like the night..._But was that the echo of the memory? or had she dreamt that later in an attempt to remember, to relive? Her brow moves lower, disturbed that the memory is hazy and unclear. The only thing she is sure of is how a chill moves down her spine with each recall of his whisper, how it comes unbidden even in moments when she can't afford to lose focus. She looks down at the reflection of Pierce's hands, a crude reminder of her misstep. She had hoped they could erase, replace. Instead they just intensified, made her wish for the memory to be real. Made the ache even stronger.

She hears Quinn cough quietly next to her, presumably at Pierce's over-familiarity. She turns a scowl at Pierce, fixes him to his spot. One mistake on her part and he's already surpassed his previous impertinence. She should have known he would take it and run with it, presume too much, stretch the boundaries beyond what even Vette managed. But Vette was different. Vette was a friend, nearly a sister. Pierce was-well, she wasn't sure what he was other than insufferable and insubordinate, slightly grotesque is his massiveness. She doesn't release his gaze, stares him down until his easy grin is replaced with a look that is almost abashed. He blinks and she sees his neck begin to redden slightly. He looks away, then back up at her quickly. "M'Lord." It's all the apology that she'll get from him, but it's enough. She doesn't need him broken. Just tethered. Her eyes return to the empty shop and the mug.

"My Lord, we're expected-" She holds a hand up, silencing Quinn. He stiffens slightly, but no one else other than her would have noticed. Here's one that's tethered too much. He's wrapped so tight, bound so efficiently and willingly to his duty that it makes her cringe. She's never been able to get beyond the icy front he puts forward, and she's not really certain if she even wants to. She knows there's something dark and twisted in his depths, but she doesn't need specifics. He serves his purpose and he unwittingly entertains Vette, and by extension herself, to no end and therefore is tolerated. And it's probably for the best that someone in this outfit has a modicum of respect for the Dark Council.

Her focus remains on the mug.

"Vette."

"Yup."

"Slice the door."

"Uh, why?"

"Just do it."

It's Vette's turn to sigh, but she comes forward, stepping between her and the door. She hears Vette mumble to herself, but doesn't give a damn what she says since it probably involves the sanity level of a certain Sith lord. The door clicks open and Vette steps away, giving a little motion with both hands to wave her inside with a bit of flare. "Did you really just ask me to slice a lock so you can steal a caf mug?" When Vette gets no answer, she shrugs, leku rubbing softly against her leatheris duster. "You're weird."

"And you aren't?"

Vette's mouth quirks at a corner. "Point taken."

She moves forward a step and then says over her shoulder, "Wait here." She doesn't pause for an answer, taking another step to bring herself inside, boot landing on tile. She brings her other boot in line and she's in the shop and takes a deep breath. It's there, lingering in the sealed off air in the caverned space. The smell of roasting caf beans, the whir of the grinder, the steam rising from the brewer-it all comes to her in a _whump_ of twisted air. And most acutely comes the memory of waiting. Knowing she had been late, too late, and yet still waiting for him. Hoping he'd decide to return, wishing she had been able to keep her promise to be there whatever the cost. It was what had kept her coming back each time they were on Nar Shaddaa, putting up with Vette whining about other caf shops on every corner. Hoping against hope that one day she'd walk in and he'd be there, maybe hoping that he'd find her there. Hope was a brutal companion on those days.

_She walks in beauty…._

She closes her eyes, the press of desire a physical force against her chest. His voice echoes through her skull, seemingly through the near-empty room, and it makes her gasp. She suppresses the desire to keen her sorrow into the silence, feels her throat burn with tension to keep it all inside. She feels the voided emptiness, the regret of letting him slip away. It stretches into the bottom of her twisted mess of a soul. She allows herself to whisper his name, just this once.

"Zeck."

There's a memory. Solid, focused. His laughter, deep and unfettered, against her ear. His face next to hers on the pillow, the pattern of scars crossing his face and neck, across a cybernetic eye. There's a memory. His good eye, vibrant blue and sharp, intent on her. The prickly feel of his close-cropped hair under her fingers. The crush of sheets between them. Another memory. The flash of lights on the dance floor, pressed up against him back to front, his arm around her waist, his breath hot against her neck. And another. Whispered words to find each other, the date and time and place set. The promised sealed in that final, lingering kiss. The memories come in a rush, assaulting her harder than a shove from a rancor.

"'_She walks in beauty, like the night...of cloudless climes and starry skies'…." It's a murmur, maybe not even intended for her to hear, but it catches her attention and sends a small thrill through her._

"_What's that from?"_

"_A poem I learned a long time ago. Kinda reminds me of you." A pause as he studies her. When he smiles it reaches up to his eyes, corners crinkling. She reaches out to touch, fingertips brushing lightly along the crow's feet._

"_You're a romantic."_

_His huff of breath fans across her face. "I guess I am. Gotta problem with that?"_

"_Just never expected it out of a smuggler."_

"_Maybe a smuggler needs to be a little bit of a romantic, imagining the next big payload around the corner."_

_It's her turn to study him and what she sees takes her breath away. Behind the swagger, behind the flippant flirtations, behind the casual carelessness is a man with a soul that seems endless, full of depth that she can't even imagine. She knows without asking that he would help her with whatever needed doing, would give her everything he had if she wanted, would maybe even lay down his life for her. She also knows she isn't special in this respect. That he would do it for those few close to him that he deemed worthy, but that just makes her feel all the more special. That she's included at all in that circle of his protection. She wonders what she's done to earn it. She wonders at her herself that she should care._

_You make me want to be a better person. She thinks it, doesn't say it out loud. It's too scary to say out loud._

_It's her turn to smile. "I like it. Tell me the whole poem?"_

She pulls the memories tight to her, feeling herself expand as they fill her, pressing both hands to her belly. "Oh." She blinks rapidly, eyelashes catching her quick tears. She rubs them away with a stiff hand, drying her fingertips against her trousers. She feels the watchful gaze of three pairs of eyes on her back and tracks in toward the counter and the mug. She takes a deep breath and rubs her nose, reaching out to grab the mug. She hesitates, seeing a single credit coin sitting next to it. It's unexpected, seeing that someone might have tried to pay -or tip?- for this mug of caf. Not what she had envisioned at all. She reaches out with a finger and touches it, taps it lightly, worrying it a little across the surface of the counter. Definitely not what she had expected.

"You gonna be all day?" Vette's voice bounces off the walls, snapping her back into the here and now.

"Don't get your undies in a twist, Vette."

"Who says I wear undies?"

She hears Pierce's tight guffaw, choking down a bigger laugh. And she's pretty sure she hears Quinn's tsk.

She reaches out and wraps her fingers around the mug, sees the brown, dried stain of caf in the bottom, sticks her nose in and inhales, sighing as a light scent of perfectly roasted caf wafts up from the inside. She slides the mug around, sees the stain along the rim where lips were placed. She traces oh-so-lightly over the line with her thumb, a small smile creeping up the corners of her mouth. She takes a step backward, then her eye returns to the coin. Somehow it ends up in her inside jacket pocket, the one with the zipper so that nothing falls out. The pocket that sits right over her hearts.

Her booted footsteps echo as she crosses the tiles and returns to the street, hand tight around the mug. She gives Vette a broad smile and pulls the door shut behind her. "When we get back to the ship, I need to talk to you privately. There's someone I need you to look up."

Vette's eyebrows went up. "Please tell me this isn't about finding the guy who used to own this joint, cause I'm pretty sure they are not going to be welcoming you with open arms and a cup of caf."

Cricket shakes her head. "No. This is someone much more important."

* * *

><p>AN: Ugh. My apologies to Lord Byron. I'm a bad, bad person.

SHE walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies,

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meets in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impair'd the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress

Or softly lightens o'er her face,

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek and o'er that brow

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,—

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent.

-Lord Byron


	2. Chapter 2

2 days earlier…

**Zeck**

"Why do you always go wandering off alone whenever we get to Nar Shaddaa? I mean, I'm not taking it personally, I just kinda wonder. You gotta a girl here or something?" Corso's following him down the ship's ramp, dogging his footsteps until Zeck gets to the elevator that leads out into the main concourse of the ship port. Zeck shakes his head. "Not a girl?...A guy? I'm not one to judge, you do what you need to do to be happy-"

"Corso, there's no one." He punches the elevator button, shoves his hands in his pockets. "I just-" He just what? Needs to check one more time? Needs to see if there's any evidence that she's been there? As if he could detect her scent in the air or feel her presence when he steps into the caf shop. Or maybe, just maybe, she'd actually be there this time. His heart races at the thought, making him feel a little giddy. He's glad his hands are in his pockets; he can feel them tremble. "Look, just make sure that cargo gets loaded up and secured. Risha's got some guy stopping by later to have a look at the engine core, see if we can upgrade it a bit. But I should be back by then. I'll only be gone a couple hours."

"Well, stay outta the bad sections, which is pretty much all of it. But you know what I mean. Maybe Bowdie could go with you? Just in case?-"

"No, Corso. Stop being a mother hen." The elevator arrives and he steps in, punches in the ground floor. "Get back to work." He doesn't miss the look of hurt and disappointment that crosses Corso's face as the doors slide shut between them and he feels a twinge at his conscious for being short with him. He'll apologize later. Zeck closes his eyes for a moment, tapping his head against the back wall. He really wants a smoke, but he's been trying to cut back. His hands bunch into fists in his pockets, trying to quell the trembling. The thought churns over in his head-_what if she's there? What if today she's finally there?_ What would he even do if he saw her? Would she even acknowledge him? She was the one who hadn't shown. Why did he even presume that she would want to see him? There was nothing to even suggest that she would ever have gone back to that caf shop. Nothing except that she'd told him it was her favorite on Nar Shaddaa. "_Best caf in the system if you ask me. Perfect every time." _

He's an idiot and he freely admits it. To himself at least. She's Sith, for one. Not exactly 'bring her home to mother' material when you looked at it that way. But there had been something different about her. Something that almost made him want to bring her home to mother. If he had had a mother anymore. Which he didn't. _So bring her home to Corso then_, he thinks with a wry twist to his mouth. Then feels guilty because he's just been an ass to Corso for no good reason. He'll have to find something in one of the shops along the way to soften him up a little. Maybe a mod for his blaster.

Guilty thoughts are pushed to the side as he steps out into the bustling activity of the spaceport and he's swept up in the pedestrian traffic pattern, making his way to one of the taxi ports. He gives in to the need for a smoke, pulls a cigarra from his pocket as the taxi makes it way through the traffic patterns that seem to fill the sky of Nar Shaddaa. He rests his head against the back of the seat, blowing smoke up into the air, his head full of her.

Fekking memories.

_Risha, Corso, and himself sliding up to the bar at one of the many cantinas only to turn en masse to a silver-toned scream that pierces the air- "Risha!"-and a blue blur that seems to envelope Risha in a swoop, nearly knocking her off the stool. The blue blur, which turns into an attractive Twi'lek woman, is enthusiastically hugged in return and there is much squealing and girlish prattle while Corso and he give each other the wide-eyed 'women' eye roll. And then from the corner of his eye, a glimpse of a Zabrek, and his blood runs cold because he feels that dark Sith power radiating off of her._

_But, it turns out, she's not your typical Sith. For one, she seems to have a sense of humor. And she's endearingly protective of her Twi'lek companion. And, he discovers later, she can hold her liquor. Introductions are made (Cricket. What kind of a name is Cricket for a Sith?), rounds of drinks ordered, a table procured in the corner, and stories told to catch up from then to here, and more rounds of drinks arrive. The Twi'lek Vette and Risha drag a not-so-reluctant Corso out onto the dance floor, leaving Zeck alone with this enigma that upon examination is one of the most beautiful women he's ever been face to face with. Her bright green eyes and quirking mouth accented by her tribal tattoos, her dark red hair flipping up at the ends over her ears, the dark gash of a jagged scar that crosses over her face. He finds himself staring at her profile as she watches the other three whooping on the dance floor, breaks it off by filling up their glasses from the bottle on the table._

_She turns back to him and gives him a look that makes him feel a bit like whatever is on special that night, like she knows exactly what he's made of and maybe thinks it's kinda cute that he's lived this long. Well, we can't all be Sith now can we? She raises her glass and gives him a silent toast, downs the whiskey in one and returns to studying him._

_He's halfway through his shot, fiery liquid just beginning to cross over his tongue and make its way down his throat when she says, "You fekking that Risha girl?"_

_Don'tspititout don'tspititout don'tspititout. He barely manages to swallow the stuff down, gasping from the burn. Her smirk tells him all. Oh, she did that on purpose and he feels the heat of a blush -and when was the last time he had managed a blush?- tinge his ears. The truth is he's not, and he's only been kinda sorta maybe thinking about it (sex with Risha, that is) because he hasn't gotten any in a while, not since Corso came on board and they've been running their asses off trying to catch up to Skavak and yeah, he might be the galaxy's biggest flirt, but there just hasn't been time for personal diversions. Oh, and that's not true because there was that one girl, friend of Risha's, what was her name? Barin? Barrla? No, Beryl? But that hardly counts because it was in a store room, up against some crates, hot and fast and rough with barely a kiss between them. So no, that doesn't count really, just getting his rocks off-and hers several times if he does say so himself. And why is his mind rambling around this train of thought while she just sits there with that seriously adorable smirk on her face watching his wheels turn?_

_Then she stands and holds out a hand to him. "We should dance."_

It had been such a bad idea, being up close to her. A really good Bad Idea.

Even now he can still feel the smolder coming off her body and it makes him fidget in his seat as his pants get more than just a bit tight. The taxi bumps in onto the landing platform and he hops out. It's a quick walk to the shop and he enters with his head full, not really paying any mind. He comes to a stop in front of the counter and pulls his mind from the fog he's in to turn his attention to the menu that hangs up on the wall. Which is not there. "Uh-"

"Those tables and chairs, and those stools. Also, all those crates there. And there's more in the back. You parked in the alleyway?" The owner, a male Nautolan is standing behind the counter wrapping up mugs in tissue flimsy and packing them into a crate.

Zeck feels a bit like his world has turned lopsided and his brain does a small flip. "What?"

"You're here to pick up this stuff? I'm asking you where did you park your transport?"

He takes a moment to look around the caf shop. First clue: no customers. Second clue: no caf to be seen. Third clue: an emptiness in the bottom of his stomach. His world bottoms out. No. No no no no no.

"Look bud, I don't have all day. My shuttle leaves in thirty, so if you wouldn't mind putting a little pep in your step and clearing this stuff out, I'd appreciate it. I hope you brought some muscle with you, or a grav truck at least. No offense, but you look like you couldn't lift an akk pup. Some of those crates are pretty hefty." More wrapping of cups, more rustling of tissue flimsy.

He feels his mouth working, but no sound comes out much less a coherent word. Wrong. This is all wrong. He's tempted to go outside to the street and look up at the sign, make sure he's in the right spot. But he knows. He _knows_ he's in the right caf shop, on the right street. He knows because he's had this feeling of dread before in nearly this exact spot. When he was waiting for her. The feeling of being an idiot goes from being a surety to being a blanket that wraps him up and weighs him down, pressing him in oppressive heat. "No, I-" he doesn't even know where to begin. "I'm not-I mean, I'm just-"

The Nautolan finally stops and takes a good look at him, irritation showing at the bumbling fool standing before him. There's a moment of recognition and then an eye roll, a look of pity and an exasperated sigh. "Oh you poor sod. There's caf on every corner on this dumb planet. Go find a new haunt."

"No, you don't underst-"

"You wanted something moved?" A new presence, big and bulky, is standing in the doorway. Zeck is abandoned as the Nautolan whirls an arm in the air, indicating all the furnishings and crates. "Everything goes, and there's extra creds in it if you can get it done double time." There's movement and shuffling and scraping of heavy objects across the tiled floor. He doesn't want to look back and watch. Doesn't want to see the physical proof disappearing.

Zeck feels himself deflate. Oh yeah. He's an idiot alright. He's an idiot for placing his hopes, his yearning for one woman on this singular establishment. He's an idiot for thinking that she might have even given him a second thought. He's an idiot for pining for a godsdamned bloody Sith. He thinks maybe it might be a good idea to find some durasteel to smack his head against repeatably. Might end up with a bit of sense knocked into his thick skull. Or maybe it would distract from the pain growing and tightening around his chest.

A cup. A glorious cup of caf is slid before him, steam tickling his nose. "If I remember correctly, you like yours black. Although you look like you could use something a bit stronger. But this is what I've got. Last of the best caf you'll ever have, my pitiful friend." The Nautolan is now leaning on the counter. Zeck casts his eyes around, spots the small brewer that holds the dregs of caf in a glass pot. The mug is in his hands and up to his lips before he even knows. His eyes close, takes a sip, and it's hot hot so hot, but so good and rich and dark and bitter. A year ago, he wouldn't have even known this sort of perfection, wouldn't have even considered himself to be the type of person to even care that this caf existed. So he supposes he can thank her for that at least, that she opened up his eyes a little, brought him something new.

But.

He can't even count all the buts that fill his addled head.

There's a singular but that rises to the surface among them all. One that swims around, pushing the other buts aside, makes itself bigger so that eventually there's just one big but.

However great this caf is in front of him, however much it's perfection manages to drown out the mediocrity of everyday life, he would so much rather have _her_. He wants to wrap his arms around her, feel the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, wants to hang on and not let go. And yes, it would complicate both of their lives, make them both vulnerable to outside forces. And yes, there's a good chance that she's forgotten him, never cared in the first place, that he had been the flavor of the month and she's moved on. He has to face that possibility. But.

"Ya know," he realises the Nautolan has been speaking, "it amazes me. There are certain people that come in here, well that used to anyway cause it's all done now, right? they just seem to know what it is-er, was-that I was trying to do. They got it, ya know? Most people, they couldn't give a wampa's ass. They just wanted the caf, the stim, and yeah, maybe they suspected this place was different from that place, but it never really registered that there was a difference. But you, man. You're one that knows. I know you've been all over the galaxy, you don't have to tell me. Written all over your face. Still you seem to show up here once in a while. You and a few others. It was nice, knowing that of all the places you could have gone, you'd come here and sit and enjoy the caf, find a little shelter from the storms of life for a few hours." There's a sigh that Zeck recognises. The sigh of longing. Of something being over. Of moving on. The Nautolan clasps Zeck's shoulder briefly and nods. "Still, new adventures around the corner and all that. I'm sure you'll find somewhere else to get your fix. There's a guy down in the Nikto Sector that makes a pretty decent brew if you're interested. He's close by Bright Star Cantina."

Zeck nods, finishes off the caf and pulls a credit chip from his pocket, lays it on the counter next to the mug.

"Naw, man. On the house."

But he just leaves it there. Doesn't feel right not paying for the caf.

"Look, not to push you out or anything, but it looks like these guys have got it all, and my shuttle leaves in 10, so I need to lock up and move on."

He nods again. "Thanks for the caf."

"No worries, man."

He gets to the door when a thought hits him. "You said there were others. A few others. One of them wouldn't have been a Sith? Pale red Zabrek? About this tall. Dark flippy hair. Runs with a blue-skinned Twi'lek?"

The answer was immediate. "Oh yeah. Her. Extra sweet, darkest roast I'd have. Yeah. She was another one that seemed to find shelter from the storms here. She'd sit over in that corner for hours, drink enough caf that she'd be practically floating. Kinda scared me at first, but she didn't pull any dark stuff while she was here, so I kinda got used to her. That Twi'lek girl, she's cute. But a little too chattery for my taste."

He's having a hard time keeping his heart in his chest. He did his best Act Casual, Don't Make a Big Deal About It. "Yeah, she is a bit chattery, isn't she? You don't happen to remember the last time they were here?"

There's a pause as the Nautolan thinks. "Mmm-maybe a few weeks? Might be more like a month, though. But I think that was the longest she sat there. Practically all day. I remember that because the other girl was hopping mad by the end of it. But that Sith, she just sat there all calm and collected as usual. She always sat there like she was waiting for something and couldn't be bothered with anything else. Really gotta go now, sorry." The Nautolan is behind him now and they're both out the door and on the street. He hears the click of the door lock behind him.

"Yeah, it's ok. Thanks again." His heart is skipping. Racing. Blood pounding in his ears, pulse throbbing in his neck. He takes a deep breath. Don't get your hopes up, don't get your hopes up, don't get your hopes up. Oh, but it's hard not to. To think maybe she had been coming here, maybe thinking she'd see him? Why else would she just sit for that long? He wouldn't think there would be much time for that with all her Sithy business. He doesn't really know, though, does he? He doesn't know much of anything.

He's on the street, kind of standing and staring when he realises he's been more of an idiot that even he cares to admit. Really a prime idiot. Of the first caliber. An idiot to end all idiots. If there were an award for idiots, he'd take Grand Prize and then they'd have to end prizes to idiots because no one would ever top his level of idiocy. He smacks his forehead with his palm a couple times and nearly laughs at the action because he thought they only did that in holovids, but seriously it's all he can do because he's saying "stupid stupid stupid" with each slap of his hand against his head. He has to get back to the ship. He has to talk to Risha.

He's dealing with a lot of unknowns, too many to count and all of them just a little scary to think about too closely.

But. He has to know. He has to try. He has to find her.

* * *

><p>AN-Thanks for reading!


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